Prison
by NoreNeither
Summary: One-shot look at Ander's origin as a mage and how he got to Ferelden's circle.


**A/N: First go at posting! This is just a random one-shot that I may or may not write more on. The character of Anders from Dragon Age: Origins: Awakening and Dragon Age 2 interested me, what with his angst and all, and I just wanted to know more about his past. Hope it's ok.**

* * *

He was a month and a half shy of his twelfth birthday when they found him. Or, rather, when they found him _out. _

With his overlong hair flopping in his eyebrows, long, skinny legs and doleful brown eyes, he wasn't any different from any other child in the obscure mountain hamlet. The only place he'd ever known.

No, he did not look it but, then again, mages never do.

_'Who is_ he?_'_

'_Some new kid the templars brought in the yesterday.'_

'_Where's he from?'_

'_Some backwater in the Anderfels. That's what Amell said she'd heard, anyway.'_

'_Did he say anything to you?'_

'_Nah, he just glared at me like he wanted to set my hair on fire when I tried saying hello.'_

'_Yikes, wouldn't put it past him, weird kid.'_

'_And did you see, they brought him in wearing _chains.'

'_Maker, I know. What must he have done? And he's so old to be recuited to the Circle…'_

He'd refused to tell them his name when he had been presented to the First Enchanter. The templars who had brought him had not been able to get it out of him either. He hadn't wanted to relinquish that part of himself, that last part that he truly owned. They'd taken everything else. He knew he'd never see his mother again. His father he could do without—_the bastard, _he thought with venom—but he still loved his mother, in spite of himself. She was a simple woman, and when the templars had told her that he was a punishment sent by the Maker, and that if she wanted to beg His forgiveness then she should forget she ever had a son, her eyes had gone wide and she'd shut her mouth tight. And she'd turned and walked back into their cottage without a further glance at her only son. He'd yelled her name only once, but even his plaintive cry wrought no change on her receeding figure. He'd see his father standing outside the doorway, a look of clear disgust on his face. _You are no son of mine, _he'd spat, and followed his wife into their home. Their normal home, with their two normal daughters. It was as if he'd never existed, just like that.

He hadn't cried. He hadn't known what to do. He was too… _something_ to cry. Hurt? Shocked? He didn't know. But he didn't say a word the entire trip. The templars had started calling him "Anders" on the journey because of where he was from, and he hadn't stopped them. He vaguely disliked it, but it was as good a name as any, he supposed. And there was no way he was letting them have his real name. They were_ never_ having it.

He got his first look at the Circle Tower as they rounded the crest of a hill near Lake Calenhad. It was a tall spike that pierced the sky. It was oddly beautiful in a way, and it did not look like the terrible prison he already knew it to be. As they'd rowed to the small island on which the Tower sat, he'd felt his belly turn to lead with a deep, despairing dread. So much so that by the time they landed on the narrow shore, he felt as if he would be sick. But he wasn't. He wouldn't—_couldn't_—show weakness in front of his captors, the blighted templars.

'What's your name, son?' asked a mild mannered man with more grey in his beard than brown the templars had taken him to. He did nothing but give him the filthiest look he could muster, but it did not dampen the old man's somewhat kindly demenour. When he refused to speak, one of the templars sighed and explained the situation.

'He hasn't spoken a word, First Enchanter Irving, since we were sent for to pick him from the village of Algermons. We gave up trying to get language out of him. He's clearly uncooperative.'

'I knew we should've asked his mother while we had the chance,' muttered the other, with a weary roll of the eyes.

The first templar winced ever so slightly. 'Yes, Ser Cutio, I _know._ But there's nothing we can do now, is there?' he turned back to Irving and continued. 'We just started calling him Anders.'

Irving nodded, and looked at the slight, blond boy in from of him. He was older than most new appretices, true, but Irving was confident he would warm to the Circle, like they all did. It was the best, happiest place for all mages, after all.

'Now, young man,' he said gently, kneeling down to make his eye level below the boy's, 'That's not your name, but unless your tell us what it really is, we'll have to write that down. You can't be called "Nothing".' He chuckled a little.

"Anders" remained silent, fists clenched at his sides, his scowl deepening.

Irving smiled a little sadly and stood up, his knees cracking as he straighted. He looked across at the Samson, the Records Tranquil. 'Record this young man as Anders, then,' he said.

'Certainly, First Enchanter Irving,' said the Tranquil with an even, modulated without inflection that unnerved the boy.

And the templars led Anders from one cell to another.


End file.
